Horcrux
by Ben Barrett and Nobody's Ghost
Summary: Stan and Kyle had killed many times together, always careful to cover their tracks. But eventually, everyone makes a mistake, and soon things begin to unravel. Can Stan trust the person he's given a very piece of his soul, or will he pay the ultimate price for his loyalty? Graphic violence and explicit content. Rated M accordingly. Kyan. Ketters. Brief Creek.


**Horcrux**

by Ben Barrett and Nobody's Ghost

"_A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul... Well, you split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body...By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By committing murder."_

-_Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, _JK Rowling

**Chapter One**

This was the part Kyle liked the most. It was always weeks of anticipation leading up to this point, and the anxiousness nearly tore him apart every time. They would plan and plan and plan, go over what they were going to do again and again, poring over each and every minute detail until they had it perfect. Sometimes they would stalk their marks, post up outside their houses in Stan's black Escalade with the tinted windows and just watch them. They would observe their comings and goings, make note of their schedules and their habits, and make sure to take into account any frequently visiting neighbors or friends and when they were likely to show up. It always took so long, and Kyle often got the shakes waiting for it. It was like a kid waiting for Christmas, or in his case, Hanukkah. He wanted it so bad he could almost taste it.

And then . . .

Kyle stepped up to the woman duct-taped to the chair. She couldn't move, nor could she scream. He took his knife and took a deep breath.

"Do it," Stan said. "God, do it, you fucking sicko."

"Say it again," Kyle sighed, feeling his heat rise. "I love it when you talk like that."

"You're a fucking nasty, dirty, cold-blooded killer," Stan said. "What you do should make you fucking sick. You're a monster."

Kyle sighed in pleasure and cut the woman's throat. The blood spurted out in a few long streams, splattering against the wall. It gushed out of the now-torn flesh for a few more seconds in heavy streams, like a waterfall. Kyle couldn't help but moan. He dipped his hand in the blood, then walked over to Stan and smeared it on his face.

"Like always," Kyle said. "Fuck me while she bleeds."

Stan cupped the sides of Kyle's face in his hands and brought him closer, close enough so that their noses were pressed softly against each other.

"You want me to fuck you?" Stan said. "You know what you have to do."

"Oh yes," Kyle said. "How could I forget that?"

Kyle walked over to the dying woman and dipped his gloved hand in more of her blood while Stan dropped his pants. Kyle took his blood-dripping hand and smeared it on Stan's manhood.

"You know I like that," Stan said.

"It always tastes so good," Kyle agreed. "I don't even like the taste of blood, but on you it's..."

The sound of someone banging on the door broke up their moment.

"Kathy!" Someone shouted through the door. "Kathy, I think we need to talk things over! I don't like the way we ended things!"

Stan and Kyle looked at each other, horrified. They hadn't known about the ex. His unexpected arrival sent them both into a panic, but being the two smartest killers to currently inhabit the earth, the duo always had a backup plan.

Stan had bought a gun for this very reason, in case a 'visitor' should show up in the midst of their doings. The tall one quickly stopped what he had been doing (not even bothering to pull his damn pants up), and strode over to where his metal lunchbox of 'tools' was sitting.

"Stan, just give it a minute. See if he'll leave," Kyle said in a low whisper.

Not bothering to listen to him, Stan dug around in his lunchbox, only to find that the gun he had been looking for was not there.

"Kathy, I can hear you in there! Just open the door!"

He shot Kyle a piercing look before walking over to the door. He glanced out through the peephole to see a tall slender man in a black suit standing there.

"Don't make a damn sound," Kyle muttered through his teeth. "Stay as still as you can."

"Where the hell is the gun I packed?" Stan asked. "The gun is Plan B."

"Sssh!"

There was a jingling sound, then a key sliding into the lock. Fuck.

The two listened as whoever was out there trying to get in fiddled with his keys for a while before hearing something drop, and in a low voice, "dammit." Kyle looked over at Stan and couldn't help but snicker at the jackass who was out there.

"What should we do, Kyle?" Stan whispered into Kyle's ear as he hastily walked over to him.

"We don't do anything," he whispered back. "She changed the locks on his ass. He can't get in."

The man outside tried his key again, then cursed and began beating on the door.

"Kathy, just open the damn door!" His voice was angrier this time.

The banging became progressively louder, and so did the man's voice. He shouted "I hate you" and cursed continuously through the door.

"He's gonna draw the police," Stan said. "We have to split."

"We stay put," Kyle replied. "Lest the neighbors who are now watching see us flee out the back door."

"Shit," Stan muttered, finally zipping up his pants and concealing his bloody tool. "We're fucked."

Kyle had to admit, they hadn't been in a jam quite this bad before, and they'd killed people all over the country. Still, he was smart. Hell, his mother had once encouraged him to take up quantum physics because she was under the impression that he could be the next Albert Einstein. Heh. The only similarity between himself and Einstein was they were both Jews.

"KATHY! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR YOU BLEEDING HO CUNT! OPEN IT NOW OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL KILL YOU!"

Kyle motioned for Stan to follow his lead. They picked up Kathy's corpse, still tied to the chair, and moved it into the guest room down the hall. Then they covered the blood stain with the rug and made the place look like nothing bad had happened, like no crime had ever been committed in this place with a big painting of Jesus on the wall and several wooden crucifixes on display. He motioned for Stan to step out of sight, then opened the door.

"Hello," he said. "You must be the ex. Kathy's told me so much about you. Won't you come in?"

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?" The man practically screamed in response.

"You need to calm down."

"CALM DOWN? DON'T _YOU _TELL ME TO FUCKING CALM DOWN, I'VE BEEN BANGING ON THAT GOD DAMNED DOOR FOR ALMOST 20 MINUTES! WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING?" Kyle could see the fire in this man's eyes, yet he himself remained completely unemotional.

"Well, if you must know," Kyle said as the man stormed in and made himself at home, "Kathy and I were in the middle of something rather private. She and I are lovers, you know."

He closed the door behind him. The neighbors were on their porches watching, but none had called the police. Of course they hadn't. That's what made this target so spectacular. She lived in the rough part of town where people didn't call the cops unless you actually hurt someone. Other than that, they just kicked back with their six packs and watched the show.

"Oh yes," Kyle said. "I know."

"What do you mean you _know_? Who _are _you anyway?"

"That's irrelevant. Anyway, your girlfriend is waiting for you in the other room if you really want to speak with her. But please, do it _quietly_," Kyle sneered at him.

He walked to the guest room, bellowing her name. Kyle followed, licking his lips with anticipation. When the man threw open the door and barged in, he saw Kathy's corpse tied to the chair. He only had time to mutter "What the blue _fuck…" _before Stan clubbed him in the head from behind.

* * *

><p>Kyle was ten when he killed for the first time. They say that the first one is always the hardest, but for Kyle it was exciting. They also say that most killers start by mutilating animals, but Kyle did not. He was an avid lover of animals and did not condone the abuse of innocent cats and dogs or even squirrels and rabbits from the forest. Animals were pure. They had no malice in them, no cruelty. Not like this prick who had him against the lockers, laughing at him and calling him a little sheenie fag.<p>

"Broflovski's a pussy queer," the boy mocked. His name was Craig. He often spoke in a cynical deadpan and flipped people off because he thought it made him cool. He spent his time with his buddies, two airheaded dumb fucks named Clyde and Token. The two of them were not helping him torment Kyle. Craig was doing that all on his own, because he was a little prick.

Poor Kyle had always just been nice to everyone. He never went around flaunting how he had a big dick in peoples faces, and he never understood why other people felt it necessary to do so anyway. And _fuck _he hated these people. They were all so cruel to him for no damn reason at all, even after he had been a decent individual to them.

"Come on, Broflovski," Craig said. "Stand up for yourself, you little homo."

Craig's eyes flitted to Kyle's shirt pocket, where he kept the picture of his grandma. It was the only picture he had of her. She had meant everything to him. In fact, she had been his favorite person in the world, the one person he would have died for. The two of them had snapped a photo together one day at the Chuck E. Cheese. It was the happiest moment of his life. They were both smiling at the camera, and it was clear that they meant a great deal to each other. The picture meant a great deal to _him _because the day after it was taken, she died.

Craig snatched this photo from his pocket and looked at it.

"Oh, is this your grandma?"

"Give it back!" he cried.

"Shut up, fag!" Craig ordered. "Bet you like licking her old cootchie, don't you?"

He laughed and ripped the photo into several tiny pieces. Kyle looked at the pieces falling to the dirty floor like snowflakes. One of them caught his gaze. It was his grandmother's right eye. Her big glasses. She stared at him as she fell as if saying _How could you let this happen? _and he felt his sanity slip. It was at that moment that he decided he was going to kill Craig.

Kyle started off stalking, one thing he had learned that many serial killers do before they move in on their prey. Some days, he would follow Craig (from a distance) to his home. The redhead would stand out there for two to three hours sometimes just watching through the windows. He was _studying _Craig. By the end of his first week of stalking him, he knew just about everything there is to know about a person. Some things he knew he _shouldn't _know, but he did regardless.

For instance, he knew about his little relationship with their fellow classmate, Tweek Tweak. He couldn't help but think _I knew that fucker was gay _to himself as he snickered silently. They never "gave it" to each other, but he sometimes saw them through the windows. They would sneak awkward, experimental kisses and Craig would let Tweek comb his hair. In return, he would sometimes do Tweek's laundry. What the fuck was up with that?

Kyle also studied famous serial killers _intensely _for hours and hours at some times. He would study how they killed, what they used to kill with, their successful kills, and the ones that led to their capture. And Kyle knew one thing right away: he would _absolutely not _make those same mistakes.

On the second day of the second week, he decided to make his move. He either needed to do it or fucking find a different hobby. He knew Craig had a big swimming pool in his backyard. Craig dreamed of joining the swim team when he reached middle school. To make sure he was good enough, he would often spend hours alone in the pool, swimming back and forth. When Kyle decided to strike, he waited in some large bushes bordering the fence near the edge of the water. He sat in these bushes as bugs crawled on him and he felt his ass begin to fall asleep. And he waited.

As the sun was setting, Craig came out the sliding glass door in his little speedo. Kyle had to stifle his laugh. Craig had always bragged about the size of his package, but by the tiny bump, he had been greatly exaggerating. Craig climbed into the water and began doing his laps. Back and forth, back and forth. And every time he would come near Kyle, Kyle's little heart would start beating like a drum.

_Stop. Stop and rest. You always do._

And eventually, he did. He put his arms on the edge of the pool and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Kyle stepped silently out of the bushes and approached him. Craig didn't even know he was there until Kyle's shadow fell over him.

Kyle did not speak when he struck. He did not threaten. He did not brag. Craig had just enough time to cry out in surprise before Kyle was holding his head under the water. Kyle felt like there was an electric current running through him. He was instantly hard. And Craig's thrashing and water logged cries only made him harder.

_Eat it, you son of a bitch._

Kyle let Craig up for air. Craig looked at him and Kyle smiled. Then he had him under the water again. He relished in his thrashing, his suffering, his panic. He felt himself growing more aroused by it with every second. He pushed down harder so that Craig could not resurface at all. As Craig's struggles reached a crescendo, so did Kyle's arousal. He suddenly found himself overcome with a strange feeling as he reached the first dry climax of his life. He let out a satisfied grunt and a moan and bit his bottom lip until he drew blood. He continued holding Craig until he finally fell still.

After all of that work, Kyle was left out of breath and panting. It was a good thing they were in the shallow end of Craig's pool, otherwise this would have been quite the challenge.

He climbed out onto the ledge of the pool and sat there, swaying his legs back and forth with the motions of the water. It was so peaceful out here now, and as he watched the corpse of Craig float past, it became even more peaceful. Kyle smiled as the body floated limply to the other end of the pool.

There would be no fingerprints on the boy due the fact that it was water he had been killed in. His parents thought he just drowned out there one day. No one ever suspected the little Jew could be so fierce. And that's just the way he wanted it.

* * *

><p>The room was spinning as the man awoke. He wanted to rub the back of his head where he had been clobbered, but quickly realized that he was tied up to something. His last view had been the chair that Kathy had been restrained in... he also remembered that her throat was cut open.<p>

"HELP!" He screamed at the top of his lungs before being gagged with a sock.

When the room finally stopped spinning and he _truly _came around, he knew he was in a chair... and a very uncomfortable one at that.

As he began to take in his surroundings, the first thing he noticed was someone with bright-green eyes laid back on the mattress, naked.

"Good morning, sunshine," the man with the green eyes said. The man in the chair could tell right away that this man was wearing some kind of wig. While his head sported brown corn rows, his bush was fiery red. And God, this dude was fucking hung like a bear.

He tried to respond to him, but his voice was almost entirely muffled.

Green Eyes snickered, "Hey Stan, doesn't he sound like Kenny?"

"Oh, he does, Kyle," Stan agreed. This one was a little less hung, but still sporting an obvious wig like his friend. The black carpet did not match the blond drapes. "You think if we kill him, he'll come back to life like Kenny?"

"Maybe we should find out," Kyle replied, stubbing out a cigarette and getting up off of the bed.

The two looked at each other, a smile on both of their faces. The man almost shit himself when he saw the size of the knife that Stan pulled out.

Stan grazed the man's throat with his knife.

"I'm gonna take the sock out of your mouth," he said, "but if you scream, I'll cut out your fucking larynx, do you understand?"

The man nodded.

"Good."

Stan removed the sock.

"What the hell is wrong with the two of you?" the man asked. "Who are you? Why did you kill Kathy?"

"So many questions," Stan cooed. "You haven't even introduced yourself. I find that a little rude. Don't you think that's rude, Kyle?" He said, looking over at his partner in crime with a wide grin stretched across his face.

"Very, very rude."

There was silence for a moment as Stan and Kyle stared at the man strapped to the chair.

"Well, are you going to introduce yourself or not? I would think you would want to introduce yourself first before my blade has to do it for you," Stan said, moving his face in close to their victim and gently caressing the blade across his throat.

"Okay," the man said, gulping. He was breathing heavy now and his bad heart was starting to twinge. "My name is… Walter O'Reilly."

Stan chuckled.

"Walter O'Reilly, huh?" he replied. "You mean Radar from MASH?"

He clucked his tongue and pulled something from his pocket. The man could see that it was his own wallet, which Stan promptly flipped open.

"James Matherson," he recited, reading from the identification. "You reside at 511 Jamestown Road. You were born August 1st, and you're an… _organ donor._ How thoughtful. Isn't that thoughtful, Kyle?"

"Hah, yeah. And it just so happens that we've been needing a new _organ _for our collection." Kyle said, walking over next to Stan and slinging an arm around him.

"However, since we are also _thoughtful _people, we'll let you choose, _Walter_." Kyle wasn't smiling now. "Now, _Walter_," he spoke harshly. "Which organ will it be?"

Stan ran his knife down the length of James's chest, waiting for an answer.

"Oh God," James said, whimpering now. "Please. _Please, don't! OH GOD PL-"_

Stan stuck his hand over his mouth.

"Shh, shh, shh," he admonished. "You already lied to us. Don't make this worse by breaking your promise not to scream. You see, one thing I hate more than being caught is an ex-boyfriend who was obviously an abusive prick. And what I hate even more than that is being _lied to_ by said abusive prick. So make it easier on yourself and just die with dignity. It's really all that you have left at this point."

James continued to scream, hoping that if he screamed loud enough, somebody would hear his struggles and come rushing in to save his life.

"Oh, James," Stan said, glancing over at Kyle, who was now sitting on the bed, and positioning his knife so that the blade would go straight through the man's heart. "Ready?"

Kyle nodded in anticipation, practically jumping off of the mattress and over towards Stan. He slung his arms around him and muttered into his ear, "God, just fucking do it already."

James was sweating bullets now. He was screaming so fiercely against Stan's gloved hand that he felt his vocal cords tear, and the sight of the knife against his heart was too much. His bladder let go and his pants darkened as he pissed himself.

"Oh, that's _naaassty,_" Stan said, in a dead-on impression of Cleveland Brown. Without another word, he plunged the knife into his chest. James died almost instantly. The last thing he was aware of was Kyle moaning in pleasure.


End file.
